


beware, use me with care

by kuro49



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Cock Warming, Deepthroating, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: Taken out of context, asking a sixty-something years old man to go down on his knees would be a mean and rather demeaning thing to do.With context, that is still Deathstroke deepthroating him in the middle of a Daily Planet Zoom call.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	beware, use me with care

**Author's Note:**

> title inspired by the saying on this vintage girl scout pocket knife: [Be wise, Beware, Use me with care.](https://generic-art.tumblr.com/post/71891226692/vintage-girl-scouts-of-america-brownie-pocket) which gave me inexplicable slade wilson vibes.
> 
> fic inspired by [OkayAristotle's Compatible Differences series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782), which is the best fucking thing ever. you don't need to read that to read this because there is no intelligent thought here aside from me forcing my kinks on to superstroke.

Taken out of context, asking a sixty-something years old man to go down on his knees would be a mean and rather demeaning thing to do.

Except Clark doesn't even get to ask, a hand barely touches the wide breadth of Slade's shoulder, and the man is already settling down between the bracket of Clark's thighs all on his own. It's not much room at all when Slade is taller than Clark himself but he is willing to make this work. Almost enthusiastically so.

"Slade, I've got a wor—"

"Settle down, boy scout. I'm the one blowing you so you don't get to fucking blow me off."

Lips already brushing at the head of Clark's cock, Slade doesn't spare him another glance before he is going down on Clark. Mouth wrapping around the crown, tongue all warm and wet and soft as he curls it against the underside only to draw back so he can graze the length with the edge of his teeth as he sinks all the way down. Dragging it out, drawing him in.

He hollows his cheeks, sucking noisily.

Clark _swears_ , and the way Slade fucking chuckles around his erection is another sensation Clark never expects to cause this fire to ignite beneath his skin. Like a sure shot of adrenaline if he was a barely legal teenage girl firing off _im home alone_ texts to her s/o. Slight tilt to the corner of Slade's lips as the man tries to grin with Clark's cock filling up inside of his mouth, and it's ridiculous how Slade can get Clark all hot and bothered with anticipation just like that.

"I'm giving you fifteen, then I'm taking over." Clark tells him as Slade swallows thickly around the length, saliva beginning to gather. "My meeting with Perry is in twenty."

Clark doesn't know why he waits the full fifteen minutes at all, they both know Slade has been aiming for this from the very start.

If pressed, Clark wants to say it is about the principle of what he truly wants Slade to learn: That he needs to say what he means and to actually mean what he says, which got Slade scoffing at him the first time he told him so. Clark has both hands curling loosely into Slade's hair at the back of his head. Fingers threading easily through the silvery white strands beginning to grow out, he lets the man bob up and down slowly like he's got all the time in the world.

Clark waits him out, gives him until the very last second of the fifteen minutes until he is bringing his hands to bracket each side of Slade's head instead.

He has a habit of giving Slade a moment that the older man really doesn't need to adjust, Slade laughing in his face the first time Clark told him that it's only considerate. But fucking Slade's face is not about consideration by any means or measures.

It is about using the man's mouth to chase his own pleasure.

The blunt head of his cock pushes pass Slade's lips once more, drags the bitter taste of precum across the flat of Slade's tongue, goes back even further while Slade opens up wider. By the time the seam of Slade's lips is stretched out around the base of his cock, Slade's nose buried against his pubes, Clark is hitting the back of the man's throat, and the sensation is almost as good as when he's come twice inside of Slade already and he is pushing right back into his body for a third consecutive round without any pause.

Messy and sloppy and with no other thought in his head but to ruin the man some more, Slade's hole all swollen and red with use, Clark drives inside with each punctuated noise. Wet and lewd and obscene when Clark can visibly see how the sheer volume of the semen he's pumped inside of Slade comes leaking out from his rim where he is stretched taut around the girth of Clark's cock each time he slams home.

Pulling back, barely halfway out, Slade's teeth scraping deliciously over him, and Clark is fucking back inside of that mouth.

Clark can feel the way Slade tries to drag in a breath of air around the intrusion but Clark sets a brutal pace. One that he knows from practice to have Slade right on edge when it keeps him from pulling in a proper breath, the head of Clark's cock thick enough to fill up all the space of Slade's throat when he bottoms out.

Again and again, Clark doesn't let up.

Run-of-the-mill gone for Deathstroke is when Slade fucks off to somewhere halfway between god-knows where and butt-fuck nowhere.

Sometimes he has reception, sometimes he doesn't. This time, Slade was gone for the better part of two months, and Clark's got more than enough unanswered texts to time it. Because for Clark, the man doesn't really go away even if he is gone.

Clark is good at lying to himself when it comes to Slade, has been from the start. But the two of them have always been about instant gratification at the base of it all, building a shaky foundation of what they have now over top of it. He's missed Slade's particular craving for Superman's ability to brutalize him, missed Slade's trust in him to stop short of actually putting him into the ground for good even more.

Clark doesn't hold out even if he can, doesn't drag this out like it's only the first lap of a marathon.

Clark is working with a deadline here.

There is the beginning of bruising to the underside of Slade's jaw where Clark holds him still. Clark wants to swear because as he lets up, it spills over with the thick drool from between Slade's kept-opened mouth. It takes very little for Clark to come now, with the hot wet suction of Slade's mouth coupled with the sight of the man almost docile and harmless down on his knees, hard between his legs, and clenching a hand down on the edge of Clark's chair until it creaks, narrowly coming close to turning into splinters.

As Clark comes, most of it goes down Slade's bruised and battered throat but there's enough of it that Slade doesn't get to swallow that fills his mouth.

"Let me see."

Slade visibly rolls his eye at him but he opens his mouth at Clark's request, feels that pleasant ache to his jaw, and presents Clark with the mess the man himself made of his mouth and tongue.

Lips red as they pull back to a gleam of teeth, Slade's tongue extended to show off just how much Clark came inside of him. As Slade swallows this time around, Clark's eyes rake down the column of his throat, and it feels downright primal and possessive when Slade's voice is wrecked and hoarse and rough to ask: "Happy?"

If Clark is a better man, his answer might not be this: "Very."

Slade doesn't move to get up on his feet, he stays on his knees, and this, Clark knows too.

His set up is pretty standard, laptop on his kitchen table, a pad of lined notepaper and a pen in front of that. His mic is muted while he waits for Perry and the two other sports columnists to get online. The backdrop is of his kitchen and a houseplant that is looking like it's not doing bad at all. Presentable from the waist up, the standard affair for when he is working from home, Clark is in a button up dress shirt, and no pants. 

Clark has never really had a real preference for working from home before.

But he's since learned to like a lot of things when Slade's in town and stays over, wandering through the apartment and not looking one bit out of place.

Glancing down, Slade remains on his knees, lazily working his mouth over Clark's soft cock, tips of his fingers stroking over Clark's balls while he slowly coaxes him back to full hardness.

"You're going to behave?" Clark asks like he doesn't already know the answer. In truth, it's really more curiosity than actual concern, and Clark tries not to think about how far they've come that he isn't at all surprised when Slade doesn't even dignify him with a verbal response. Snorting instead with a throat still too sore to commit to words, Slade waves him off as he turns back to mouthing at Clark's cock, tongue drawing flat and broad.

Clark's gaze is forcibly torn away when he hears a notification from his laptop, Perry and two other colleagues have since joined.

He takes a deep breath in, and steels himself for what is going to be a very hard hour.

Both figuratively and physically because even with context, that is still Deathstroke with every intention to deepthroat him in the middle of a Daily Planet Zoom call.

The pleasantries drag even if Perry keeps it to a minimum.

Twelve minutes in, Clark has given a run down of what he's done with his assignment from earlier in the week. At the fifteen minutes mark, his colleague has given him two additional contacts that he should reach out to while Perry is moving on with his own set of recommendations.

By minute twenty, Slade has him completely hard.

By minute twenty-two, Slade has dragged his mouth and tongue across every inch of Clark's cock. Leaving him soaked in spit, Slade has even licked and bitten hard into Clark's inner thigh, right above where the elastic of his black briefs sit, leaving a mark of his own even if it's one that doesn't stay.

When Slade wraps his lips around Clark's cock once more, he swallows him down easily to the hilt. The motion is practiced, his throat rhythmically relaxing and squeezing down around the thick head as he gets it even deeper. Just a little bit more and Slade is burrowing his nose into Clark's pubic hair once more, settling there with the pleasant weight of Clark's erection pressing firmly down on his tongue, pinning it in place. 

One of Clark's hand continues to scribble down a pathetic fraction of what Perry is saying, his handwriting atrocious as he makes a half-hum-half-nod as someone else speaks up, adding value to a conversation he's completely clocked out of. His other hand slips down beneath the table, and he can't look without giving himself away but his fingers are brushing over the shorter strands at the base of Slade's neck for the few minutes that it takes for him to breathe through how fucking good Slade's mouth feels all wrapped around his cock.

When his hand curls over Slade's throat, he can physically feel the bulge there, displaying just how far down his cock is buried inside of that mouth.

Clark nearly chokes even when he's not the one down on his knees between the spread of his thighs.

If Slade is made to use a word as loaded as _love_ with Clark, then it is reasonable to believe that there are many alternatives (all of which are destructive, most of which are self-destructive, while the remaining ones will probably take out a sizable radius of any nearby city if need be) that he will personally take before he comes to admitting to anything remotely like the truth. But this one is a convenient truth, and he's not opposed to those when it gets him what he wants.

Even if Clark isn't choking him, he loves Clark's hands at his throat.

Slade cannot swallow around it, drool thick and dripping freely from his chin where it spills over from the wide stretch of his lips around Clark. Slade can groan though, and the sound reverberates from his diaphragm to his vocal cords to the cock that doesn't budge. He tries to breath from just his nose and it's such a messy affair when it doesn't go anywhere. Slade has no idea what minute he is at, but he doesn't tap out.

He keeps his cock warm.

The moment Perry signs off, Clark disconnects the call on his end faster than his colleagues could even bid him a proper good bye. He would be a little bit embarrassed but the call ran way over the allotted time and he really doesn't have much of his patience remaining with the way Slade has left it in tatters. He closes his work laptop a little harder than he needs to, shoving the kitchen table as a whole away to look down at Slade and the messy, lazy way the man pulls off of his cock.

"That was— holy," it's an audible pop, drenched in spit. " _Fuck_."

He picks Slade up from the ground, drags him to his chest and settles the man into his lap.

His fingertips finding those same spots, handholds and chokeholds, and all the places on Slade's body cut and curved for the fit of Clark's hands alone.

"Don't say I never do anything nice for you, Clark Kent."

Clark doesn't comment on the smirk Slade turns to him, the wicked edge to it. He zeroes in on that mouth, draws Slade into a kiss instead. Clark opens up to the eager press of Slade's tongue, lets Slade force the salty bitter taste of his own cum into his mouth when Slade brought him over the edge at the hour and a half mark. He doesn't draw back from it, he lets Slade taste his own fill. The chair beneath them is done for if they do anything more than make out messily like teenagers on it.

"That was perfect." Clark tells him when Slade finally lets him pull back far enough to move, trace his mouth down along his neck, his lips following where his thumb and forefinger were pressing down against the column of Slade's throat. He kisses Slade there, he also marks additional bruises over the existing ones to take form and stay. "Let me return the favour."

Slade lets Clark bodily manhandle him once more, gathering him up into his arms, moving them both to the bedroom instead this time.

Slade goes with it easily, raring for the attention when left unattended for close to two hours during the call. His feet never touches the floor. When Clark makes to drop him in the middle of the mattress, Slade just digs his grip in, yanking him down with him, grinding up against the hard line of Clark's body. Slade makes it clear that Clark has a lot of making up to do when Slade's erection has been left alone for just as long.

"Better get to it then," Slade tells him, biting down on Clark's bottom lip as the man above him settles over him, "I'm not cheap, my favours come with interest."

And if Clark knows anything about Slade, it's this: Deathstroke always comes collecting.


End file.
